


Running

by CaptainTulip



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Extremely Dubious Consent, Horror, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Murder, Not Epilogue Compliant, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, Self-Harm, Thriller
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-03
Updated: 2019-06-03
Packaged: 2020-04-07 02:13:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19075399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainTulip/pseuds/CaptainTulip
Summary: Psychological thriller. Harry can't stop running.





	Running

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2006/2007 Merry Smutmas exchange on LiveJournal

"He's not moving, Remus."   
  
Something is placed gently on the coffee table. "He might be sleeping. Let him rest, Hermione."   
  
"I wasn't aware that it was possible to sleep with your eyes open."   
  
A sigh. "If his eyes are open, it's likely he can hear us." Remus's dark eyes peer at him.   
  
A shuffle. "Try moving," Hermione urges.   
  
Remus scoots down the tatty old sofa, and Harry's eyes cling to the dirtied bronze of Remus's buttons.   
  
"Did you see that? He followed you along."   
  
A clock ticks in the background and Harry scratches the inside of his palm.   
  
"Wonder what he's thinking," Hermione says, softly.   
  
Remus leans back in his chair. "Probably about how rude we are for discussing him in his presence."   
  
A shadow appears at the corner of Hermione's lip as it pinches into a smile. "You think?"   
  
"It's possible," Remus says lightly, and the filtered sunlight catches for a second on his nails. "Pompfrey seems to think that, theoretically, his brain is in perfect working order."   
  
The pinkness of Hermione's mouth glistens as her chin drops. "I can't believe that. I mean --  _look_  at him." Her bracelet jangles slightly as she makes an abortive movement in Harry's direction.   
  
"Yes. Well." Remus clears his throat and grinds his teeth slightly. "Apparently, sooner or later he's going to start noticing 'little details', and then he'll just -- wake up."   
  
Hermione shifts, the fabric of her skirt rustling against the couch. "Even though he's not sleeping," she comments wryly.   
  
Remus shrugs and leaves a hair behind on his jersey. It's different colours all the way down, and Harry stares as it shines black and white and gold in the sunlight. He catches sight of Hermione behind him, and stares in wonder at a face so familiar.   
  
"Remus."   
  
Remus's dark eyes flick towards Hermione. "What's wrong?"   
  
"He's looking right at me," she whispers.   
  
Remus sighs deeply and runs a hand through his thin hair. "He does that sometimes."   
  
"No. He's looking  _right_  at me. Into my eyes."   
  
Remus stands up shakily, resting heavily on the back of the armchair. "Well," he murmurs, "say hello, then."   
  
A dimple in Hermione's chin quivers and she stares at him with bright, glistening eyes. "Hello, Harry," she says quietly, her eyes flicking over every inch of Harry's face with a mixture of hope and despair.   
  
"Hello," Harry whispers back, and Remus's legs buckle beneath him. 

 

* * *

  
  
  
Harry strokes his hand up and down the polished wooden floor. His face is pressed up against it too, and it's cold against his cheek. It's hard and it hurts, but he can't convince himself to move, because blowing in with the cold air is his  _name_. And it's not like it used to be, when it was inside his head, a few millimeters from his air, just behind him, just beside him, just a few meters away...   
  
No. This is people he knows. People who are his friends and his confidants and they're discussing him without his permission. They are acting on the assumption that he's tucked up in bed, but he isn't. He smiles at that thought, because he's learned skills that they said he never would.   
  
"--something seriously wrong with him."   
  
When Harry had slipped past the thick door on the way to the toilet and heard the voices, he'd first assumed they were talking about someone else of their acquaintance that had become seriously mentally ill during the duration of the war. They'd whispered things like "torture" and "cruelty" and Harry had felt a little sorry for this person, because he knew what those kind of things were like. That's why he wasn't sleeping like they thought he was. He'd wondered who the person was. If the same thing happened to them that had happened to him.   
  
But then Hermione had sighed and said, "I don't think he's the same Harry anymore," in a melancholy sort of voice, and Harry had stopped dead in the hallway. Harry?  _Him_?   
  
So that's how he's ended up on the floor. Because although the doors are too thick to listen through, there's a nice gap underneath them, just enough for Harry to catch their conversation. He saw on a muggle movie once someone slipping a knife under the door to see what was happening on the other side, but Hermione doesn't let him have knives.   
  
"--permanent psychological damage..." Remus's voice vibrates low.   
  
_I'm not a retard_ , Harry thinks angrily, and scratches at the floorboards in irritation.   
  
"..may take some time to get through mental barriers..." Remus continues on.   
  
Harry thinks it's a bit rich to criticise his "mental barriers" after years of training to perfect them. Do they think he wants everyone's grubby fingers rifling around in there? Poking and prodding and stroking and tickling? He knows what  _that's_  like. Is it so unbelievable that he'd simply allow his shields to stay up? He goes to shake his head, and remembers that it's pressed against the cold floor, and stops.   
  
"...severe blood loss..."   
  
"Don't you think I know what he's been through?" Hermione sounds nearly hysterical.   
  
"..not sure that any of us do..."   
  
Harry grinds his teeth. If only Remus would speak a little louder then the conversation wouldn't seem so one sided.   
  
"...be careful if I were you--"   
  
Harry blinks. He's sure he's missed something, because  _surely_  Remus wouldn't be cautioning Hermione about him.   
  
"You don't seriously think Harry would do--"   
  
There is a hissing sound, and Hermione lowers her voice.   
  
"...anything to  _me_?"   
  
Harry strains his neck to hear what the reply is, but it's so low that all he can here is a trembled whisper and he curses loudly. There is a sudden tension that emanates from the room and Harry's stomach lurches. He scrambles to his feet and runs quickly down the long corridor back to his bedroom. He spends the night under the bed because he isn't sure he's ready to sleep in the bed yet.   
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
Harry wakes up with a raw throat and splinters in his elbows. Hermione and Remus are already eating when Harry stumbles down the hallway and into the dining room.   
  
" _\--investigation is hindered by the fact that a magical signature has yet to be identified on the bodies. The Head of the Auror unit has informed us that this is most uncommon, but has refused to comment any further. If anyone has any information they believe might prove useful, they are urged to firecall or floo the Ministry of Magic..._ "   
  
"Turn that off, would you?" Remus mutters. Hermione flicks her wand and the wireless dies.   
  
"Sleep alright, Harry?" she asks as she pours milk into a glass. Remus glares at her across the table, and Harry forgets to nod.   
  
"Could you help me in the kitchen a moment, Hermione?" Remus asks tersely.   
  
"Uh -- alright." Hermione frowns. "Just a minute, Harry," she adds with a smile, and slips out of the chair.   
  
Harry grits his teeth and sits down on one of the old, wooden chairs as their argument wafts through the paint-crackled door.   
  
"...screaming all night, do  _you_  think he slept well?"   
  
"I was just making conversation!"   
  
"...doesn't need to be reminded of..."   
  
"...want things to be as normal as possible--"   
  
"--think things are ever going to be normal again?"   
  
"I can hear you, you know," Harry says loudly.   
  
There is a long pause and the dining room clock ticks obscenely loudly in the background. Not a whisper can be heard from the kitchen and Harry rolls his eyes. "Maybe if you're really quiet, I'll forget you ever existed!" he says into the silence, and two bowls of soggy cereal stare at him blankly. A moment later the two emerge from the kitchen, both doing their best to plaster apologetic smiles on their faces.   
  
"We don't mean to talk about you behind your back, Harry."   
  
_Yes you do_.   
  
"We -- we just want," Remus says, glancing at Hermione, "what's best for you."   
  
"We want you to get better," Hermione adds with a sympathetic look.   
  
"Better." Harry raises an eyebrow.   
  
Hermione swallows. "Yes, better," she affirms. "You're healing. It's going to be a long process. You have to rebuild all the little things that were stripped away from you, unjustly. And we want to be here for you while that happens. We want --"   
  
But Harry doesn't find out what else they want, because as she is reaching to place a hand on his shoulder she knocks his water glass and it falls and shatters all over the wooden floor, half of it splintering into a million glittering pieces and the other half in jagged structure. Hermione gasps loudly and Harry stares at the sharp and pointy edges of the glass feeling his throat start to constrict and contort. Hermione is murmuring something placating but Harry can't pull his eyes away from the jagged edge that could so easily tear his flesh in two, that could so easily run down the length of his body and up again spilling his crimson blood as it goes, that could so easily squeeze into his eye or his tongue or his hands or his throat or --   
  
"HARRY!"   
  
Harry blinks. "What?" he asks, startled.   
  
"You -- you started shaking. You were saying -- well, that doesn't matter. Are you ok? Is something wrong?" Harry only realises that he's on the floor when Hermione drops down and places a cool palm on his forehead. "Do you feel sick? Is it just that you're tired? You're not hearing voices, are you? Look, I think I should call Healer Hoskins--"   
  
_Would you just SHUT UP._    
  
There is a pregnant pause, and Harry feels the strange feeling on his tongue like he's just said something he shouldn't have.   
  
"She's only trying to help you, Harry," Remus says, and Harry feels like he's itchy under his skin.   
  
"I  _know_ ," he say, grinding his teeth at the back of his mouth. He suddenly feels the urge to get up, get away, and as he jumps up he hits the table, and the milk from the cereal spills all over the baby blue tablecloth. He clenches his fists in and out and his eyelid spasms as he tries to look calm.   
  
"What's the matter?" Hermione asks urgently. "If anyone's telling you to do anything, Harry, you tell them  _no_ \--"   
  
"No one's telling me to do anything," Harry snaps. Hermione looks hurt and Harry suddenly feels sick with guilt but he can't stop the alien feeling of fury pumping through his veins. He doesn't know where it's coming from, or why he's suddenly so  _fucking angry_. He tries to take a deep breath but all that does is make his heart clench and his head throb. "I'm sorry," he bites out, trying not to lose his cool and rip the tablecloth from the table. "I'm suddenly  _ve_ ry,  _ve_ ry angry, so I need to  _go_  and deal with it somewhere  _privately_."   
  
The other two stare at him in shock, before finally Hermione shakes her head vigorously. "Yes, good, thank you, Harry. You're excused--"   
  
She hasn't even finished her sentence as Harry slams the door behind him. He storms through the house but doesn't quite make it to his room before his arm swings and his fist shoots out in front of him and goes straight through the wall. A roar rips from his mouth, grating against his tender throat, and his other fist follows his first one. He loses all sense of time as he continues to pummel the wood and plaster, tears starting to slide down his face as his knuckles turn bruised and bloody. Old portraits stare at him in shock and horror as his fists slam into the wall again and again and again, until finally one goes completely through and he loses his balance, collapsing to the floor.   
  
_What are you doing_?   
  
"I don't know," Harry whispers miserably, staring at his hands. "I don't know."   
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
"We think it'd be good for you to get out of the house a bit, Harry."   
  
Harry wonders vaguely when they became "we", and how they seem to know each other's thoughts so well. He wonders if it's "them" against "Harry" now. Once upon a time it was Harry's Side. It wasn't the side of the light or the Order or any of that -- you were either for Harry Potter, or against him. Harry didn't like that pivotal roll then, but this slippery slide into insignificance is making his head reel. After he'd destroyed the wall into his bedroom he'd tiptoed back into the kitchen to see Hermione crying on Remus's shoulder. Remus was stroking her head saying, "I know, I know," in a voice that Harry didn't like at all. It's the sort of voice you use when all hope is lost, the sort of voice Harry used when Ron asked him if he was going to die and Harry replied, "Of course not."   
  
Harry sighs and stretches his new skin experimentally. It shifts perfectly on his fingers, like it's been there all his life. No signs of bleeding or bruised knuckles anywhere. He supposes he's lucky to have someone like Hermione around. "Do you," he says.   
  
"We don't want you feeling like you're cooped up in here, like you can't escape. There's not much for you to do around here, really. Remus and I don't like leaving you at home by yourself for such long periods of time, but we really can't get any more time off work."   
  
"We thought if you had a job of your own, you'd feel more..."   
  
Harry doesn't look up. He doesn't want to see the glance. He's so  _sick_  of the glances.   
  
"So we've got you a job."   
  
Harry snaps his head up.   
  
"Just a little one," Hermione hastens to add. "At the Leaky Cauldron. Cleaning tables and things like that. You'll see people you know and you can earn money; it's safe and -- well, the truth is, there aren't many other jobs you can get. If you'd finished your NEWTs like I said you should--" Hermione breaks off with a stern look from Remus.   
  
"They're fine with your admittedly dodgy history--"   
  
"--and there's plenty of security there. We've been looking into this for a long time, and they seem to be the only place that are willing to take you in your state--"   
  
"What state?"   
  
Remus coughs. "Possibility of mental instability is--"   
  
"I'm not mentally unstable."   
  
Hermione sighs. "We're not saying you are, Harry, it's just that most places aren't willing to accept a worker with a history such as yours. You're 'damaged goods' to them Harry, and not even your status can change the fact that there's still that possibility of you -- going off the rails. You've been hurt and that's fine, no one is blaming you for that. But the Leaky are one of the few establishments set up to be able to cope with all ranges of people, as customers and as workers, so if you did have an -- an attack, a panic attack, or some sort of relapse or episode then nothing would be wrong. You wouldn't get fired. Wouldn't that be good?"   
  
"But if I'm..." Harry taps his hand on the table. "If I'm -- like you say I am, then how come I wasn't treated?"   
  
Hermione stares at him, before shaking her head. "What do you mean?"   
  
"I  _mean_  how come I wasn't treated? I mean," Harry shakes his head, "if I'm as damaged as you seem to think I am then why didn't they put me into St Mungo's? In the psyche ward? Why wasn't I monitored and spelled and pumped full of potions? Is it just because I'm Harry Potter? Can't have a national hero in the loony bin, is that it? Even if he needs it? What kind of--"   
  
"Harry, you  _were_  in the hospital."   
  
"I--"   
  
Harry blinks. He licks his lips and tries to take a moment to breathe and process Hermione's words. He forces his lungs in and out, in and out, letting the soft air dry his wet lips.   
  
"Don't you remember?"   
  
Harry grasps the table with both hands, clenching his teeth tightly. He rifles through his mind, trying to force out a memory of being at St Mungo's. He can recall visiting Lockhart and his glinting smile and loopy letters, and he can remember Mr Weasley and the stitches in his body trying desperately to keep the blood in. He can remember frantically running towards the building as the fifth floor was engulfed in flames, and the putrid stench of burning flesh. He can remember a myriad of things, up to a point.   
  
"I don't remember ever being treated there."   
  
"It doesn't matter, Harry." Remus's voice is soft and comforting. "You were in a sort of semi-coma. We don't expect you to remember."   
  
Hermione takes a deep breath and smiles brightly. "Anyway. About this job. We've got you an interview on Tuesday, how about that, then?"   
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
The first week, he is so nervous he smashes fifty glasses. He still finds it hard to explain how he did it, because they had been spelled unbreakable, but few questions are asked. Harry doesn't know if Hermione tipped them off about that, but either way he's glad. The patrons don't seem to mind; all too busy reading the latest news in the Daily Prophet with a maudlin air. Harry hasn't read the paper for a long time.   
  
The second week isn't much better. Sometimes he looks over at the bar and thinks,  _I could do that_ , but gets a glare from the barkeep and hastily keeps the brooms sweeping.   
  
On the third day of the third week he has a nervous breakdown in the toilets, which in hindsight wasn't such a good idea because now he has to clean them up. It's not as bad as cleaning things up without magic, like he used to have to before Hogwarts, but it still requires exertion and Harry is exhausted once he's finished. He can see Rosy loitering by the bar, and she gives him a smile when he meets her eye. He looks away shyly, still unsure how to reply, and picks up the mop. At first Harry thought she was a regular, but he started to notice that she didn't ever order anything. Every now and again she slips upstairs into one of the empty rooms and a man from the bar always seems to know to follow her, and she always seems to end up having more money at the end of the evening than when she started. Harry isn't completely stupid, and he knows that the barkeep isn't either, but it's the best-kept non-secret that Harry's ever seen, so he doesn't mention it. Harry sometimes wonders why they let her do it; why she doesn't get told to piss off and work her business elsewhere, until he realises that some of the men who sit down and stare longingly at her get a firewhiskey to distract themselves until an appropriate hour.   
  
It makes more sense to Harry then.   
  
The first time Harry catches Rosy's eye across the bar, she raises her eyebrows in a question. Harry waits a second before nodding slightly and continues on with his work. Rosy seems to have, Harry thinks with a smile as he shoves the mop into the bucket, taken that as an oath of eternal friendship.   
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
"I met someone," Rosy whispers in Harry's ear on a cold Thursday afternoon. Harry pulls back from his sweeping to stare at her, her smile wrapping across her face. She grabs onto his arm and her eyes gleam.   
  
"A --  _someone_  someone?" Harry asks, and flinches as Rosy pretends to smack him on the head.   
  
"O' course not," she snaps. "Don't be so bloody stupid." The frown remains for moment longer before dissolving once again into a smirk. "He's coming in tomorrow night. He said," she began, making sure that she had Harry's interest, "that he'd pay  _me_ ," she emphasizes with two palms to her full breasts, " _eight hundred galleons_  for just  _one_  night!" She cackles triumphantly and ignores Harry's blushing. He still doesn't know how to deal with these conversations that have just started cropping up. "Oh, I dunno what kind o' person pays that t'get his cock sucked but believe you me, Harry, I don't give a  _damn_  if it's gonna get me that kind o' money!"   
  
Harry continues to sweep the little flecks of dust out from the corner, his ears starting to burn too, before twisting his face up in confusion. "What if he isn't telling you the truth?"   
  
The question earns him another mock smack around the head. "D'you think I was born yesterday? I saw the money, laid out in front o' me. He's got it, alright, and he's certainly taken with me, that's for sure." She drapes herself across the wall with a giggle. "I mean, who wouldn't be? I'm the perfect catch," she adds, and Harry nods distractedly as he tries to sweep around her feet.   
  
  


* * *

  
  
When Harry starts putting up the chairs of the unused tables in the evening, a man comes in and sits at the bar. He has a long scar running the length of his eye and halfway down his face, and dark hair. His face gives Harry shivers down his spine when he glances at him, but he doesn't know why. He's never seen the man before in his life, and as he watches him order a drink and proceed to steadily ignore it, he wonders why the room suddenly feels thick with tension. Harry tries to force down the bile in his throat and wrenches his head away, trying not to stare.   
  
Harry's hand freezes when he sees the man pick up his glass out of the corner of his eye. He's barely looked at it for the whole time he's been sitting there, which has almost been an hour. The man brings the glass to his mouth but the liquid barely touches his lips, and not a drop must have gone down his throat. Harry doesn't know what the point of buying a drink and not drinking it is -- maybe he's meeting someone. It's late, though, and there is no movement outside.   
  
Harry notices Rosy out of the corner of his eye, slinking around the edges of the room. The man turns around in his chair and stares at her, a look on his face that Harry feels like he hasn't seen in a long time, and Rosy struts over to him. She starts talking to him, looking strangely breathless and giggly. She flicks her hair around her finger and smiles seductively, and Harry tries to avert his eyes but he suddenly feels like every movement of the two is vitally important. He feels an odd pulling sensation in his stomach as he watches the two, like everything in him is focused on the murmur of their lips and the smooth back and forth of their body language. For a brief moment their murmurs become harsher, but then Rosy smiles again and murmurs what looks like, "Whatever you want."   
  
The man takes one final pretend sip of his drink and stands up, walking over to the stairs and disappearing into the darkness as he climbs out of sight. Rosy gives Harry a quick glance, her eyes a little nervous as a smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. "It's him," she whispers, looking to Harry for approval. Harry looks over at the stairs at where the man had just disappeared, and had to force down the urge to shout "Don't!" across the bar. Instead he smiles at Rosy, and she beams back, hurrying to follow her eight hundred galleons.   
  
It's the last time Harry sees his new friend alive.   
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
Harry can't hear anything but the ringing of a thousand screams in his ears. He doesn't know if they're his or someone else's and he tries to scratch them away but they won't  _leave_. They won't go. He hammers on the sides of his head and his throat feels raw as he cries out, trying not to open his eyes for fear they'll spurt all over the ground all of the blood he's seen. His clothes are sticking to his skin with a mixture of vomit and excrement but he doesn't care, he just wants the screaming to  _stop_.   
  
"It's the same, alright. Look at her. Like the others. She's been completely--"   
  
"I don't want to. Wait until the special unit comes in -- I'm not paid enough to deal with this shit."   
  
"Who's this guy?"   
  
"Dunno."   
  
"Get him out of here, will you?"   
  
"I think he's her friend."   
  
A pause that Harry thinks he'll remember for the rest of his life.   
  
"Not anymore."   
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
"These past few weeks haven't been his best." A pause. "No."   
  
Harry presses his ear harder against the door.   
  
"Well, the murders -- you've heard about the murders, yes? They were in the paper. -- No, Mum, the paper I sent you the other day -- yes. The ones - yes, those ones. On the front page. Well, one of the latest ones -- no, they don't know yet. One of his friends from work was killed -- No. I know. I know. I couldn't -- I know! Exactly."   
  
Harry feels something on the back of his neck and he shudders and flicks it off. A spider scuttles down the hall and he watches it for a second before pulling himself back to the conversation again.   
  
"--Yes, absolutely disgusting. I know. She'd been completely mutilated -- you are? Well, yes, I suppose if he'd raped her  _afterwards_  then it would have been worse--" A long pause. "I know. Harry vomited and then passed out. What a thing for him to see. Especially with the way he  _is_  -- I know! Exactly. I feel sick just thinking about it, but for him to -- No. He's left, now. I don't think it's safe for him to be there, anyway, he might be targeted -- yes. No. He can't handle much at the moment. His nightmares are getting worse, he can't possibly be sleeping at all -- we have to heal his throat every morning."   
  
Harry rubs his hand up against his neck.   
  
"Sometimes he knows. Sometimes he talks about it. Sometimes he completely refuses to acknowledge it, like that whole time of his life just didn't happen. That's normal, though, I've heard, in situations like these."   
  
_Situations like these._    
  
"Me? I'm fine. I'm--" A long pause. "Well, I'm not sure how well you'd be coping either--" Hermione clears her throat. "I'd love to but I can't leave Remus alone with--"   
  
Harry can almost hear the frown in Hermione's voice.   
  
"Well, I can't leave Harry by himself, Merlin knows what he'd do!"   
  
Harry blinks.   
  
"Yes, he's that bad. Has these sorts of relapses where he thinks he's back with -- Yeah. I know. It's hard to stand sometimes, he looks like he's suffering so much. I mean, you save someone and you think they're healing but -- What? Oh. I'm not sure. I don't think he's getting worse. He doesn't seem to be getting any better."   
  
A very long pause this time.   
  
"I couldn't. Really. I know it seems like the most sensible thing to do but he just doesn't have anyone, you know? -- I have a life. I do. At the moment it's looking after -- look, I can make my own decisions now. Half the time Harry doesn't know what's going on and the other half he's probably hallucinating, so -- well, I think love and care can help him."   
  
Harry smiles a little to himself.   
  
"What do you mean, my failing? What, you want me to chuck him into a padded cell and throw away the key? He's not completely mental! He was  _tortured_ , Mum, where's your bloody sympathy? Yes, yes -- sorry. Besides, they think he might have seen the guy who -- yes. Well, Harry was there that night. He must have seen whoever it was. They think he knows something, they don't want him drugged up, do they? -- What do you mean, who's "they"? The Aurors, Mum. The Aurors who are investigating the -- yes, they're like police. Police for wizards. I -- what?! No, they don't think Harry did it!" Hermione's voice is so loud Harry doesn't even need to press his ear against the door. "What? No! Because I trust him. Harry wouldn't do something like that! He's traumatised, he's not a fucking psychopath --"   
  
_Traumatised_. Harry chews at his fingernails.  _Traumatised_.   
  
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to swear. Yes, yes, I'm sorry. But really. Harry wouldn't hurt a fly. Well, except himself but -- what? Oh. Yes, he was for a while. They don't think he'll try to hurt himself properly again, hopefully he's too enthralled with being back with the world again that --" Hermione laughs weakly. "No. I guess not -- what? Well. He, er, knocked a wall down. I don't know. He was angry. He gets like that sometimes. But I suppose everyone does -- oh, well, I do have Remus here. He's a lot stronger than Harry is, I think -- he's not that old! He's old enough to protect me, Mum. From whatever mood takes Harry."   
  
Harry hears Hermione sit down, slowly, on one of the old armchairs.   
  
"I don't know," she says, and her voice has suddenly gone soft. "I honestly don't know, Mum. I don't think he's looking for -- even if he were he wouldn't be interested in me -- well, just because. It's -- you don't know what it's like here. We're all fucked up together, really." A bitter laugh. "Yes, I won't. No. Look, I should go -- just, well, because. I'll talk to you later, all right? Love you, Mum. Bye."   
  
Harry hears the snap close of the two-way mirror and, after a brief moment of pause, the inevitable sound of muffled crying. He stands up slowly and walks down the hall, swaying slightly as he goes. He makes his way into his room and climbs into bed, praying for one night of sleep.   
  
  


* * *

  
  
Harry wakes up in the middle of the night to the sound of his own screaming. He struggles to free himself of the sheets confining him to his bed, begging and pleading and moaning.  _Just let me go, please, let me go..._. His heart thunders at a million miles an hour and his body aches with pain and memory, and he can feel hot tears streaming down his face. He can still feel it -- the curses, the whispered words, the hands on his body and in his mind, the pain and the guilt and the sickness...   
  
He swallows, repeatedly, trying to force the bile down as he tries to wrench the thick duvets away from his sweating limbs. He can't stand it. He can't stand it any longer. He can't stand the memories, the hurt, the pain, all of  _this_ that they said was everything he needed --   
  
Something catches Harry gaze out of the corner of his eye, and with a start he snaps his head to the fluttering curtains.   
  
There is a face. A face at the window.   
  
Harry screams as a bolt of terror flashes through his body, but the face still stays there, staring at him unblinkingly. He clutches at his heart and falls to the floor, edging away with shaking limbs. "LEAVE ME ALONE!"   
  
The face shakes its head slowly and Harry's heart pumps blood faster than it ever has, urging him to  _go, go, go_!   
  
But Harry can't leave. He is frozen to the spot, because as his eyes clear from the tears and focus on the bedraggled face at the window, he notices two things: one, that this is the man from the bar weeks ago.   
  
And two, that this man is Severus Snape.   
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
The room is dark. Harry stands by the door.   
  
He remembers waking up. Screaming. And running, his bare feet being ripped open by the unrelenting ground beneath them. Chasing a man in a dark coat.   
  
He remembers a hand coming out of nowhere to grab him, that sick pull in his stomach, and he remembers falling.   
  
He remembers a thick door clanging behind him, sending tremours of fear down his spine.   
  
He doesn't know where he is. What he is doing here.  _Why_  he is here. He stares at the man on the other side of the room, who has ignored Harry since he entered. There is a small basin attached to the wall and the man strides over to it, drops of crimson liquid falling from his hands as he goes. Harry expects to hear the slight  _drip drip_  as it splatters against the ground, or at least the clipping of hie heels as he walks across the floor -- but there is nothing. Harry lets out a hitched breath and the sound disappears almost as soon as it comes.   
  
_Run, Harry_.   
  
And he does.   
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
After that, it happens again, time after time. Always the same. At first it is only at night, but then it starts happening during the day. He'll be sitting on the couch, or pouring himself a glass of water, and suddenly the man will be there, at the window. Harry tells himself every time that he's not going to run, that he's going to stay put. But then the face appears and suddenly Harry is out the door and on the road, crying out as glass and gravel tear at the thick soles of his feet, unable to stop the constant pounding of his legs or the tears flowing down his cheeks. The hand appears out of nowhere and grabs the front of his shirt, he feels sick, he falls...   
  
And he is in the room again. The man's hands drip blood onto the ground, and Harry only has a few seconds to stare at the hooked nose, the greasy hair, the sallow skin he knows so well before the man walks silently across the room to wash his hands, and the feeling of terror overtakes Harry and he's gone. Within minutes he is back at the house again, crying into his pillow and staining the sheets.   
  
He tries wearing shoes constantly, even to bed. He tries tying himself up, which gets him a stern visit from Healer Hoskins. He tries telling Hermione and Remus, but they're too busy bandaging his feet and murmuring softly to him to listen. He can't get the words out, anyway; they stick in his throat like daggers.   
  
He tries spending a whole day with Hermione. He doesn't leave her side, and tells her to grab him if he starts to run. It works and Harry is giddy with excitement until Hermione needs to use the toilet and refuses to allow Harry in with her. As soon as the door slams in front of his face he snaps his head to the skylight and whimpers with terror at the flashing eyes and maniacal grin.   
  
Running. Screaming. Bleeding. Grabbing. Falling. Clanging.   
  
The blood drips. Harry looks around for an escape, but there are no windows in the dark room. There are benches and shelves and pots and pans and a closet door swinging wide open, but Harry can't see any sign of the door that has just slammed behind him. The air is thick with the stench of blood and decay.   
  
"I--" Harry croaks but it is too late. Snape walks across the room to wash his hands, and at the sight of the blood swirling down the drain, Harry lurches and starts to sprint. He doesn't know how he gets from inside the dank room with no door to outside in the day, but he doesn't care. All he cares about is getting back, back, back.   
  
The door opens and Hermione stares down at him, crumpled at her feet. The carpet is already matted with crimson stains from his feet, and he clutches them helplessly.   
  
"Oh Harry, not again," Hermione whispers, and Harry starts to cry.   
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
"You're sure he's never attacked any other part of himself?" Healer Hoskins asks in a soft voice.   
  
Hermione shakes her head. "Just his feet. If we leave him alone even just for a minute, we'll find him lying on the ground, sobbing and bleeding everywhere. I--" Hermione takes a shuddering breath. "I hear him saying things like... like 'don't make me go, let me stay'. D-does that help?"   
  
Healer Hoskins pauses for a long time. Harry sees him glancing at him out of the corner of his eye, but he refuses to take his eyes away from the window.   
  
"That's the part that doesn't make sense," Healer Hoskins says slowly. "Everything else, all the relapses and dreams and mutterings are perfectly understandable given his situation. I don't know, leave me alone, somebody help me, don't touch me, where am I -- but 'Let me stay'?" Healer Hoskins shakes his head. "That's not a recollection, that's something entirely new."   
  
"Is that a good thing?"   
  
"I--" Healer Hoskins looks at Harry again. "Well, I'm glad that he's having fewer flashbacks. The more we can get him to associate with this time and place, the better. Is he still having nightmares?"   
  
Hermione nods.   
  
"Does he still vocalise his feelings in the dream?"   
  
"Yes, but now it's both."   
  
"Both?"   
  
"Well," Hermione says, taking a look at Harry. Harry doesn't know why they keep staring at him -- it's not like they expect him to contribute to the conversation at all. "He'll start to scream those things that you said, the usual let me go and don't touch me and whatnot. But lately -- lately it'll change, somewhere late at night, and it'll be more..." Hermione breaks off, and puts her head in her hands. "It's horrible. I've never heard anyone shout like that. It's this scream of absolute terror, but a sort of -- longing. A sort of -- I don't know how to explain it."   
  
"And this is where 'Let me stay' comes in?"   
  
"Yes. Let me stay, I don't want to go, where's the door, what are you doing--"   
  
"'What are you doing'?"   
  
"I don't know why he says that."   
  
"I wouldn't expect you to," Healer Hoskins says, stroking his chin thoughtfully. "What are you doing," he repeats softly to himself. He turns to look at Harry, and Harry can feel his eyes creeping across his face. "Does he always look out the window like that?"   
  
"He's started too, yes."   
  
"And when did that start?"   
  
"The same time as -- as the feet thing."   
  
"I see."   
  
The two stare at Harry for a moment, and Harry can almost hear the cogs turning over in their minds.   
  
Hermione takes a deep breath. "Sometimes, after he's been quiet for a long time, he'll start chanting Snape, Snape--"   
  
_Snape_. Harry snaps his head around to stare at Hermione.   
  
Healer Hoskins blinks and stares at Harry. "Well, that certainly got a reaction," he says, bemused. "Would this be Severus Snape?"   
  
Harry stares at Hermione's mouth as her lip quivers. "He doesn't know any others," she says helplessly. "Harry?" she asks, but Harry doesn't reply.   
  
"Severus Snape wasn't present during Harry's capture..."   
  
"No. Harry hasn't seen Snape since his sixth year at school. I have no idea why he'd be saying his name."   
  
Harry's neck starts to twinge and he turns his head away, gazing out the window again. He can hear the others' soft breathing and the birds outside, the soft tick of the clock and the low hum of the vibrating wand in the Pensieve, making copies of the Healer's memories.   
  
"How odd," Healer Hoskins says in wonder.   
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
The face. Running. Screaming. Bleeding. Grabbing. Falling. Clanging. The blood drips, Snape walks. The water runs.   
  
"What--"   
  
He doesn't have the chance. He's gone, running, and he's collapsing on the floor.   
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
Another wet afternoon. Harry watches the rain pound at the windows, washing the grime away.   
  
"Could I, er, speak to you privately?" Healer Hoskins drums his fingers on his desk suddenly and it makes Harry start, but he doesn't look away. He can't.   
  
Hermione is hesitant. "Oh, er--"   
  
"Just for a moment. Harry's had a good session today. He's fine to wait at reception, aren't you, Harry?"   
  
Harry thinks he sees a flicker of something outside, but no one appears. He bites his lip. He feels hands on his arms and back and suddenly a door slams in his face. He jumps, blinking at it. He glances round at the receptionist, who nervously mutters something about papers and apparates away. Harry turns his face back to the thick door and frowns. He presses his ear up against the cool metal. He's never been sent out of Healer Hoskins' office before.   
  
"--had the Aurors in yesterday. Asking whether we might know anything--"   
  
"You had better not be implying what I think you're implying, Mr Hoskins, or you can be  _absolutely_  sure we will not step one foot inside this establishment again."   
  
A pause. "Er, yes." A cough. "Quite. Thank you for you time, Miss Granger."   
  
A moment later the door flies open.   
  
"We're leaving, Harry." Hermione doesn't look him in the eyes as she grabs him by the hand. "We are leaving  _now_."   
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
Harry heart starts to race when he realises he's alone again. It dark, and late, and  _oh God_.   
  
The eyes feel like they're piercing holes in Harry's flesh. The face from nowhere, glaring at him. Beckoning him.   
  
_I WON'T!_  Harry wants to howl at it, but he will. He knows he will. He's gone before he's even considered trying to force himself to stay. He's out the front door before he's even considered grabbing hold of it. He knows he was wearing something on his feet but they're gone again, and he's left with the pain again.   
  
The hand grabs Harry's shirt roughly before he has the chance to duck away, and the world lurches, and he's falling. The slamming door sends a shiver down his spine.   
  
The blood drips.   
  
_Say something_. He doesn't want to be gone again. Doesn't want this to keep happening.  _Say something_!   
  
He can't. He works his throat as hard as he can but it's useless.   
  
"I--" he manages, and nearly whines in fright. Snape ignores him, walking steadily over to the basin. "You--" Snape begins washing his hands.   
  
"I must."   
  
It takes a moment for Harry to realise that the words have come from Snape's mouth. He lets out a terrified gasp and just as Snape starts to lift his head to look at him, Harry is  _gone_.   
  
_NO_!   
  
There's nothing he can do.   
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
Flashing eyes, dark hair, pale white skin shining in the moonlight. Out the door, down the street, his legs aching and his feet screaming in pain. A hand clutching roughly at his shirt, the disjointed pulling sensation. Falling down. The door slamming behind him.   
  
_No_ , Harry thinks frantically.  _I won't run this time._    
  
Snape's hands drip on the stone floor silently, and he gazes at them for a moment. He moves over to the basin to wash them, and Harry's heart starts pounding in his throat.  _Say something. SAY SOMETHING_.   
  
"What are you doing?" Harry whispers, watching as Snape meticulously cleans the blood off his hands.   
  
Snape freezes.   
  
_Oh God_.   
  
Harry's muscles spasm, but in a terrifying instant he realises he is still there.   
  
He hasn't moved. He isn't running.   
  
_Oh God_.   
  
The water is still running silently, swirling down the drain, and Snape stays hunched over the basin.   
  
The blood in Harry's body is throbbing around so fast it's the only sound he can hear in the silence of the room.   
  
Then Snape takes a breath. Harry leans back, terrified.   
  
"If I have no free will," Snape mutters, "then I cannot be morally culpable."*   
  
_What_? Harry stares at him, and suddenly the soft sound of running water fills the room. Harry's foot hits the wall behind him as he backs away and the noise is immediately sucked into the void. He takes a deep breath.   
  
_Say something_. He doesn't want to run.   
  
"But you do have--"   
  
Snape spins around and within seconds, suddenly Harry is pressed up against the cold stone. Snape's wet fingers are around his throat, squeezing, tightening, locking down. His fingernails are a little too long and they dig into the sensitive flesh of Harry's neck, and Harry can almost imagine the pattern of half moon shapes that Snape's unrefined cuticles will cause later.   
  
"If I have no free will," Snape hisses into his ear, and Harry feels a thrill of liquid fear through his veins as he realises Snape is pushing his leg in between Harry's, "then I  _cannot_  be morally culpable."   
  
Harry gasps in shock as Snape's grip tightens and he darts his eyes frantically around, trying to think of anything but the increasing pressure Snape's thigh is putting on his groin area. He feels a dribble of the watery blood trail down his chest under his shirt and his throat spasms as it tries to allow more air into his lungs.   
  
"What I would do to you now..." Snape's grip weakens. "What I  _will_  do to you now," Snape murmurs and pressing his nose up against Harry's cheek, he inhales deeply. "To your body," he adds with a grinding motion to Harry's cock, "will not weigh upon my conscience."   
  
Harry feels a lurch in his stomach that he realises is a mixture of anxiety and anticipation. He feels a frisson of arousal travel through his cock as it twitches and he feels sick with himself, twisting his mouth into a disgusted deformity.   
  
_Run, Harry_.   
  
But he can't.   
  
"It is not my choice. I simply must," Snape whispers, his fingers stroking Harry's neck. He makes vague thrusting motions and his thigh starts to rub persistently against Harry's cock. The heat and friction together is too much, and with a burn of shame and a startled shock Harry feels himself start to harden for the first time in years.   
  
_This can't be happening_. With Snape.   
  
"Why?" he gasps back to distract himself, and Snape's body goes rigid as his fingers tighten on Harry's neck again.   
  
"It's my fate!" he spits. "What man chooses his own fate, Potter? What man chooses which piece to be on the chessboard of their lives? You were always a pawn, Potter. As am I." Snape voice goes deeper, colder. "As are we all."   
  
Harry shudders as Snape's hot breath cools on the shell of his ear, and Snape's mouth curls into a cruel smile. "Odd, isn't it, that you're so comfortable here," he whispers in a different voice, allowing his fingers to relax slightly. They start stroking up and down Harry's pale flesh, and Harry sucks in a breath while he can.   
  
He shakes his head, still struggling to push himself further away from Snape, but the hard wall is unyielding behind his back. "What?" he gasps. "I'm not--"   
  
"Odd that after all you've been through,  _this_  should be the one thing you don't mind in the slightest." Snape illustrates his point by grinding his hardening cock almost painfully into Harry's groin, and Harry hisses through his teeth.   
  
"You're completely--"   
  
"Shouldn't you have retreated into yourself by now, Potter? Shouldn't you be reliving the experience? Shouldn't your body be  _wracked_ ," Snape emphasises with a particularly hard grind, "with disgust and guilt and memories?"   
  
Harry's breath catches in his throat. "I--"   
  
"I'm going to fuck you, Harry Potter," Snape says suddenly. "I'm going to rope you to this wall and fuck you until you can't even hobble your way back home. And not only are you going to take it, you're going to  _want_  it. You're going to scream my name and come on my cock--"   
  
"P-please, Snape--"   
  
Snape's dark eyes blink owlishly. "Please?  _Please_? You want this, Potter? Is that what you came here for? The truth comes out, at last--"   
  
"I came here because I had to," Harry chokes. "Y-you made me, y-you were there, I couldn't s-stop running--"   
  
Snape sneers. "Always the victim, Potter, yet look how you arch into my touch every time." Snape drags his hand down Harry's body, hot and heavy, and starts to prove his words by plunging his hand down Harry's trousers and grabbing his straining cock, eliciting a loud moan from Harry.   
  
"W-why are you doing this?" Harry gasps. "Makes no -- unngh -- sense--"   
  
"We never ask why, Potter!" Snape snaps suddenly. "We just  _do_! We, all of us, are the victims of circumstance!" Snape breaths are harsh against Harry's neck, but suddenly they begin to slow again. "One would think," Snape says, slipping back to an oily tone, "you'd break apart in my hands, crumple to the ground in a skin and bones heap of desolation, but look at you -- flushed cheeks, long eyelashes, slippery lips. One couldn't be blamed for thinking Lucius and his cohorts didn't do a proper job on you in the Dark Lord's absence--"   
  
Harry squeezes his eyes shut and clenches his teeth as Snape's hand suddenly becomes slick with lubricant. "They did their best!" he forces through his teeth, trying hard not to moan.   
  
"But you are not  _broken_ , Harry Potter," Snape says like it's the most important thing he's ever said.   
  
_Yes, I am_.   
  
"However flawed, however tarnished, however sullied, you are still  _whole_ ," Snape says as Harry bucks shamefully into his hand. "I could break you now," Snape whispers. Suddenly there is a rustling sound and Harry opens his eyes slightly to see Snape undoing his trousers with a shaking hand. "I could," Snape's strong voice stumbles as his hand shakes over his straining cock, "break you  _right now_. I could rip you apart, Potter, I could tear your soul into pieces right in this little room, and no one would know or care or hear your screams--"   
  
"Don't!"   
  
It's such a ridiculous thing to say that Snape stops for a moment, staring at Harry. "Don't?" he says with a raised eyebrow.   
  
"Please." It is barely audible.   
  
There is a long silence. Such a long silence, where Snape stares into Harry's eyes and Harry does all he can to look away but he can't. He can feel Snape trying to get inside his head, trying to stroke his barriers away in time with his slowly moving hand on Harry's cock and he shakes with the exertion of keeping Snape out. His eyes are so unfathomable, dark pools of absolutely  _nothing_  and Harry feels a sick feeling in his stomach when he looks at them.   
  
"I must." Snape's voice is low and cold.   
  
Harry shakes his head, unable to speak.   
  
"But why are you letting me?" The question feels like a pinprick in Harry's chest. "Why haven't you thrown me off? Why didn't you spit in my face and turn me away? Why aren't you using your magic to prevent me from defiling you in such a way?" Snape doesn't stop his strokes on Harry's cock as he chants his questions. He gets louder, slowly, and his pumping gets faster. "Why don't you stop me, Potter? How can you let me keep going, going, going? What am I to do?"   
  
Harry's body starts to shudder as a feeling of panic begins to sweep his body just as the beginnings of his orgasm start to descend.   
  
"Why do I want to do this to you? Why is no one here? Why do you keep running, running, running?"   
  
_I don't know, I don't know, I don't know..._    
  
"Why are you all alone, about to be fucked by a man you haven't seen for years? Why am I not dead, Potter?" Snape's eyes flash with triumph. "Why am I stroking you to orgasm? Why are you such a sick little pervert? Why do you like it? Why does your straining cock crave it? Why are you such a disgusting whore? Why are you  _coming_.."   
  
Harry groans as his orgasm wracks his body, shuddering with his release. His body is coated in a layer of thin sweat and he feels hot and cold flushes flicker across his skin as he comes into Snape's slick hand. Tears start to form in his eyes as the sick feeling of guilt comes crashing through as the waves of orgasm subside.   
  
"You don't know," Snape whispers suddenly into Harry's ear and startled, Harry gasps and the tears finally slip down his heated cheeks. Snape seems pleased by this and after a moment he leans forward and licks his tongue slowly up Harry's face, savouring the salty drops on his tongue. "You don't know.  _I_  don't know. All we know is that you want to be  _used_ , don't you?"   
  
Harry's head is starting to spin and all he can do is let it fall backwards against the stone wall.   
  
"Don't you?!" Snape grabs Harry by the shoulders and spins him around, pressing his hard cock into Harry's back. "This is who you are, Potter." Snape grabs Harry's trousers and shoves them down, rubbing his length in and out of the crease of Harry's arse. "And this is who I am. Here we are in our roles, playing our parts dutifully. We don't know who we are, or where we are, or what we're doing, and most importantly  _why_. All we know is  _this_..."   
  
Harry gasps as he suddenly feels a slick finger enter him, probing roughly around.   
  
"You need this. I need this."   
  
Another finger joins the first and starts thrusting in and out slowly, and Harry feels a burn of shame as his cock twitches with renewed interest.   
  
"Having lost all sense of self, our only satisfaction comes from serving others--" Snape breaks off with a groan and Harry hears the slick sound of lube against flesh, back and forth and back and forth. He doesn't know why Snape is preparing him, doesn't know why Snape is pretending like this. Why hasn't Snape just taken him?   
  
_Like you deserve_.   
  
"Now we are nothing.  _Nothing_."   
  
Harry cries out as Snape suddenly thrusts his hard cock into his arse and hates himself for the way he pushes back against it, trying to get more into him, deeper and deeper until it pierces the core of him. He feels himself slowly getting hard again, and feels almost beside himself with fear and confusion.  _What am I doing_?   
  
The sound of flesh slapping on flesh disappears into the silence of the abyss but Snape's groans do not, rumbling through Harry's body as he fucks him hard and deep, plunging deeper with every thrust. Harry can feel Snape's hands on his hips getting hot and sweaty and he squirms, anxious to feel them on his cock once more. Snape starts shuddering and he sinks his teeth into Harry's shoulder, quickening his pace, and Harry hears a whimper escape from his mouth, but he doesn't know if it's arousal or fear. Snape's hand suddenly unclenches from Harry's hip and grabs onto Harry's straining cock, and Harry moans in relief, disgusted at the noises coming out of his throat.   
  
"Do you feel sick inside, Harry?" Snape says hoarsely, and with a final harsh groan he comes hard. The rough palm of his hand is unrelenting as it pumps his aching cock and Harry comes with a gasp and a silent,   
  
_Yes_.   
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
Harry sits, trembling, on the verandah outside the door. The rain pours down steadily on the tin roof and he shivers uncontrollably as a gust of wind travels up his shirt and licks at his drying skin. He can feel the tears still drying on his face, sticky and scratchy and unwelcome. He still feels bruised and tender from where -- from when...   
  
Harry swallows thickly and tries not to think about it. If he thinks about it, it means it happened, and if it happened it means someone could know, and if someone knew then they would ask him about it, and if they asked him about it he'd have to  _tell_  them, have to describe Snape's pointy little teeth grazing his shoulder blade and blunt cock jabbing at his arse; where he'd been and what he'd done and why he'd done it -- Harry buries his head in his hands. He doesn't even know the answer to any of those questions himself. He doesn't know anything. He doesn't know anything about anything, anymore. He didn't for a long time, but for a while he knew more than he knows now. He used to know the reasons for the things he was doing. He could say, at any moment, what he was doing and what it was going to achieve and who is was going to help -- does he have that now? Harry's teeth chatter and he hugs himself tightly. No, he doesn't know anything now.   
  
Harry glances around. What a sight he must be. Gritty fingernails, bloody neck, sullied pants, but worst of all dirty on the inside. Harry knows that everyone can see it. He can almost see it himself, and even when he can't he can feel it. It wasn't as bad before today -- he'd been starting to get better, starting to feel cleaner. But it's back again, thick and putrid and grimy, clogging around his heart and lungs and head. Blackness, darkness,  _filth_  -- Harry feels his throat spasm with disgust and rubs his palms hard into his face.   
  
"Harry? Is that where you are!" A pause. "Oh, Harry, you really must stop doing this to yourself. You're not going to be able to walk." Harry stares up at Hermione's pitying face and slumps down on the cool wood of the verandah, sobbing.   
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
Snape's face, different this time. Harry thought he might not come back, afterwards, thought that maybe he'd got what he wanted -- but he's running down the street again. Screaming. Bleeding. The hand from nowhere, the falling. The door behind him. Harry might be getting tired of this if it weren't so terrifying  _every single time_. The blood drips, splattering on the floor. Snape walks calmly across the room. The water runs, and Harry can hear it this time.   
  
Snape looks up at him from the basin, looking at Harry expectantly. "Yes?"   
  
Harry stares at Snape, wanting to crush him, kill him, break him.  _You bastard_! sits on the tip of his tongue. He knows he can stay if only he says  _something_.   
  
But he crumbles, and runs away. Again.   
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
Harry wakes up in a cold sweat. The rain is battering the windows, and he stares at them frantically, expectantly.   
  
Nothing.   
  
_Soon_ , Harry thinks.  _He'll be here soon._    
  
"What are you going to do about it?"   
  
Harry realises the words have escaped from his own mouth.   
  
_I don't know_.   
  
"Kill him."   
  
It's such a startling revelation that Harry jumps out of bed. He walks slowly over to the mirror, hanging, tilted, against the wall. He stares at his face, red and blotchy and half-crazed. He runs a hand over his cheek, unable to pull his eyes away.   
  
"Kill him." He watches his lips mouth the words. "Kill him."   
  
_I can't_.   
  
A strong gust of wind shakes the windows and Harry spins around to stare at them.   
  
Snape's face is there. Cold, dark, dripping.   
  
_Kill him_. Harry summons his wand wordlessly, wandlessly.  _Kill him_.   
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
It happens quicker this time. Harry can hardly feel his feet as they pound against the ground, can hardly feel his body as the rain batters it harshly.  _Kill him_. That's what he'll do. Then he'll be gone. No more running.   
  
The door clangs. Snape shakes his hands and the blood drips off them, onto the floor. He leans over the basin. "Back again, Potter?"   
  
Harry blinks. "I..." He grips his wand tightly, strengthening his resolve. "I--I'm going to kill you."   
  
Snape doesn't even look up. "You're not," he says, stirring the large, bubbling cauldron.   
  
"D--don't fuck with me, Snape! I'm here to--"   
  
"We both know why you're here. Put your wand down. It's no use here, anyway."   
  
Harry opens and closes his mouth. He stares at Snape and tries to dredge up as much courage as he can, but the longer he looks at Snape the more he feels like it's ebbing away, like the little pieces of him are scattering all over the floor. He suddenly feels cold and scared, like he's a little boy and Snape's a terrifying man, looming over him with angry eyes. He can't pull down his arm though, and it sticks awkwardly out in front of him, his wand still pointed at his former Professor. It feels hot and sticky under his sweaty hands.   
  
"You don't deserve to live," he whispers.   
  
Snape scrubs his hands hard. "I think perhaps you're misdirecting your attentions somewhat, Potter--"   
  
"I know who I'm talking to!"   
  
Snape's head snaps around at Harry's shout. "What, any Death Eater will do, even if they weren't present during your months of incarceration?" he asks, raising his eyebrow. "Anyone who follows orders? Perhaps you should consider your precious werewolf if those are your criteria, Potter, he's--"   
  
"You won't leave me alone! Your face always at the window, forcing me to--" Harry suddenly finds his mouth flapping about uselessly, with not a sound escaping even as he gesticulates wildly.   
  
Snape raises an eyebrow. "Why keep coming back, if you hate this? Hate me?"   
  
_I can't help it_. The words don't sound. Harry stares at Snape, dumbly.   
  
"You know what's going to happen, even before you arrive. That knowledge brought you running to me and, in the beginning, sent you running away again. But now you know you want it, don't you Potter? Now you know you  _need_  it."   
  
_Get away from me_. Nothing. Harry's lips don't even move this time.   
  
Snape walks slowly over to Harry. Harry stands flat against the wall, wishing he could sink through it like every time he ran -- but it's as solid as rock, harsh beneath his fingertips. Snape keeps walking, even when he's inches away from Harry, and suddenly they're pressed tightly against each other.   
  
"You know you're going to end up like this," Snape murmurs, his hot breath settling on Harry's nose. The room temperature suddenly flares and Harry starts to break out in a sweat. "That's why you come to me."   
  
Harry shakes his head, but Snape grabs it in his strong hand and holds it tightly. He stares into his eyes, and slowly starts forcing Harry's chin up and down. "Yes," Snape says slowly, nodding along with Harry's. "Yes."   
  
Snape trails his other hand down Harry's body and, without warning, plunges it down Harry's trousers to grab his cock. His hand is hot and sweaty as he starts to stroke Harry slowly, and Harry grits his teeth as he tries not to moan.   
  
"Are you going to kill me now?" Snape whispers, his coarse mouth against Harry's neck. "With my hands on your cock? You can leave, if you like," Snape says. "I never stop you."   
  
Harry shudders, groaning in Snape's rough hands. Without thinking he raises his hands up to place them on Snape's shoulders, bracing himself, and Snape smirks triumphantly.   
  
"Just like all the others," Snape whispers.   
  
Harry comes with a startled cry.   
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
Harry spends the next day in bed. He tries to sleep, but the wireless is blaring downstairs, so he stares resolutely at the ceiling for hours instead.   
  
" _The two boys, Nicholas and Frederick Randall, were found dead in the alleyway yesterday morning. The Aurors have confirmed the suspicion that these murders are connected to the series of mysterious murders reported over the last few weeks, committed by a man Aurors are still yet to put a name to. This raises the total death toll to a terrifying thirty five..._ "   
  
"Harry?" Hermione's voice asks softly, tapping on the door. "Can I come in?"   
  
Harry doesn't answer. Hermione comes in anyway, and sits herself carefully on the edge of the bed. She ignores the crimson stains on the covers at the end, but Harry knows they'll be taken and cleaned later.   
  
"I've been talking to Healer Hoskins--"   
  
"Whoever he is when he's at home," Harry mutters into his pillow.   
  
"This is important, Harry, concentrate. We were discussing your relapses and your nightmares again, and he says he's almost certain that your brain has been creating situations that you're  _not actually experiencing_."   
  
Harry freezes. He feels something strange squeezing at his chest, and he blinks twice, turning to face Hermione.   
  
"Prolonged and extreme stress, physical and emotional exhaustion, sensory deprivation, brain damage--"   
  
Hermione lists them like she's reciting a textbook and Harry feels a sick feeling squirm around inside his stomach. He stares at her lips moving like  _brain damage_  occurs in her day to day conversation. Her eyes are bright and determined but there's something in them that's missing. Harry's eyes trail down her face, along the pink scar that runs along her neck, over her frizzy hair. It takes a moment or two for him to filter her words back.   
  
"--can all lead to mild hallucinations, and if you take into account all that you've experienced, then Healer Hoskins says that perceptual distortions are almost guaranteed, and neuropsychological impairment--"   
  
_Retardation_.   
  
"I'm not a retard," Harry says sharply.   
  
"Of course not, Harry," Hermione breathes. "I just -- just wanted to know if -- strange things have been happening. To you. And if so, then it's likely a product of your mind. A result of..." Hermione's eyes flicker over Harry's face. "A result of the torture."   
  
Harry stares at Hermione's nervous expression a moment, wondering when she got into the habit of chewing her lip like that. It is almost vicious. "Torture," Harry says blankly, and Hermione's face crumples.   
  
"Please, Harry. Please don't do this. Not now."   
  
"Do what?"   
  
Hermione opens her mouth, and Harry notices her eyes are strange and watery. She snaps her mouth closed as a single, silvery tear trails down her cheek. Harry resists the urge to take a step back away from her.   
  
"Harry." She says it through clenched teeth like she is trying hard to suppress something. "Just tell me. Have you been experiencing anything -- out of the ordinary? That doesn't make sense?"   
  
Harry feels himself tense as images of Snape filter through his mind. Of a room void of sounds, of a man assumed dead, of long fingers wrapping around his cock and pulling, of a wet tongue licking up his tears, of blood trailing down his neck, of running, running, running...   
  
Harry sits up.   
  
"Anything," Hermione says carefully, "that might not be... real?"   
  
Harry turns and gazes out the window.  _Real_. "What is " _real_?" he asks, frowning. "What  _is_  reality?" Harry shakes his head, rubbing his calloused hands around the soles of his feet. "If I can feel something, touch something, smell something, taste something -- how is it not real?"   
  
Hermione shakes her head slowly. "Harry, if you've been hallucinating..."   
  
"But how do I  _know_?" Harry demands, unable to look at Hermione's face for fear that another will appear the window. "How can I tell? How can I pick one reality from the other? How can I say one reality is more  _important_  than the other? How do I know? How do I know you're real?"   
  
"Harry..." Hermione's eyes are wide and pleading.   
  
"Knowing that it's possible that some aspects of my life might merely be figments of my imagination, even if they're more real to me than anything has ever been, doesn't help me at  _all_. Should I be wondering, every second of every day, if the people I'm talking to are " _real_ ", if the places I'm going are " _real_ ", if the food I'm eating is " _real_ \--"   
  
"HARRY-YOU'RE-NOT-CRAZY!" Hermione shrieks, jolting Harry out of his train of thought. He snaps his head around to stare at Hermione for a long time, at the desperate tears rolling down her cheeks.   
  
"I don't know, Hermione," he whispers to her. "I don't know. I just don't know. Why can't they understand that?"   
  
Hermione looks surprised for a moment. "Who, Harry?" she asks. "Who?"   
  
"I don't know," Harry repeats. "I don't know. Don't they understand? I don't  _know_."   
  
"Harry, stop. Who are you talking about? Who's "they"?"   
  
"I don't know. I don't know. I don't  _know_ , how could I know? I don't know  _anything_ , why don't I know anything? They didn't tell me! I don't know! Let me stay! I don't know! I don't want to run! I don't  _know_! I  _must_! Let me go, let me stay, let me go, let me  _stay_ , I don't  _know_!"   
  
Hermione glances frantically around. "Stop," she whispers to Harry. She places a hand on his shoulder and the other on his cheek, trying to direct his eyes to hers. "Stop, Harry," she tries to say calmly, but it comes out choked. " _Stop_!"   
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
"What's happening?"   
  
"I don't know, he just started shouting, I can't stop him! He won't stop, Remus, he won't stop!"   
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
The sneering face glaring through the glass.   
  
_No_!   
  
Newly healed feet torn open, bleeding, shooting pains up his legs. The arm snatching him out of nowhere, the twisting in his gut. Falling down, down, down...   
  
Clanging, loudly in his ears. The blood dripping, Snape walking.   
  
The water runs. Loudly.   
  
Snape says nothing.   
  
"How do I know if you're real?" Harry blurts out, his heart hammering. He flinches for a second, wishing he could leap into the air and stuff the words back into his mouth.   
  
"How indeed," Snape says neutrally, and Harry is strangely disappointed.   
  
"Hermione says you're a result of my neuropsychological impairment," he presses on anyway, his mouth dry with anticipation.  _What are you doing_? He doesn't know.   
  
There is no reply, and the only sound in the room becomes the soft squelching of Snape's large knife through what looks like a lump flesh on a silver bench.   
  
Harry pulls a face. "Could you--"   
  
"No."   
  
Harry swallows, taking a step away from the wall. "A figment of my imagination."   
  
"Potter." Snape sounds bored and a little peeved, nothing at all like the maniacal hissing Harry is used to. "Based on your apparently mediocre mental status, I would venture the opinion that you would be entirely incapable of creating a character as complex as myself." Harry notices Snape smirking a little as he places strips of flesh into a large, wooden bowl.   
  
_Smirking_.   
  
Harry stares, his head starting to throb. "No, I didn't  _create_  you." Obviously. "You'd be a sort of phantom."   
  
Snape shakes his head softly. "Miss Granger is far more likely a candidate," he says in a low voice as he switches his large knife for a smaller, sharper one with a hooked end. "A warm, caring, feminine character informing you there's something amiss with your mind -- not that we didn't know that already," Snape says, clearly quite amused. The knife hits the bone and he changes the angle ever so slightly. "It makes sense," Snape says, almost to himself. "The mind informing itself of its malfunctioning by way of a trusted messenger."   
  
"Of course Hermione's real," Harry snaps frustratedly. "She's not a figment," he amends. "I mean, I've been staying with her this whole time. If she were a figment then I'd just be -- sitting somewhere staring at a wall and talking to myself."   
  
Snape clicks his tongue. "And we've already established that's impossible, have we?" he asks in a tone that's bordering on conversational. Harry tries not to think of how strange it sounds coming out of his mouth. He doesn't know if it's a good sign.   
  
"Yes," Harry says. "Because what's the point in constantly second guessing yourself? I mean, we could all be in St Mungo's -- we don't really know, do we? No one ever really knows if their life is just a hallucination or not. You can't really live it as if, at any moment, it's going to all disappear and you're going to wake up to a life in a loony bin, like everything you think you know is going to fall through the cracks at any moment -- you would go crazy then, wouldn't you?"   
  
"Ah." Snape turns to face him. "So you're saying that, as far as you're concerned, I'm real."   
  
Harry pauses. He feels a throb of adrenaline go through his body, and he lifts his chin up. "No," he says, and his voice sounds far away. At Snape's blank look, Harry feels vaguely giddy. "As far as I'm concerned, you're  _not_."   
  
Harry doesn't know what he expected. Maybe for everything to disappear and a caring voice to murmur,  _Well done, Harry. You passed the test._  Maybe for Snape to let him go, or to get angry, or to grab him and smash him against the wall, again and again and again until Harry's lifeless body hung limply in his arms.   
  
But as Snape's mouth quirks up into a triumphant smile, Harry knows that isn't what he expected.   
  
"Excellent," Snape murmurs.   
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
Harry sits on the floor staring at his bedroom wall.   
  
He can still feel Snape's rough hands on him, squeezing and molding and grabbing and stroking. He can almost still feel Snape inside him, Snape's breath on his neck, Snape's words in his ears. He still can feel the sharp pain of the open wounds on his feet, and the grazes on his back where Snape fucked him against the stone.   
  
He can still see, in his mind's eye, the bones and fingers and heads in jars that line the walls of the dark room. He can visualise the room perfectly, with the basin and the shelves and the stone walls and floors and the benches, better than he can his Hogwarts' dormitory.   
  
He shakes his head. "What's real?" he whispers into the nothingness.   
  
No one answers.   
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
"I've been seeing Snape," Harry says suddenly in the middle of dinner. He doesn't know why.   
  
Hermione's fork stop just short of her mouth and her eyes go wide.   
  
" _What_?" Remus asks, staring at Harry like he's grown an extra head.   
  
"I -- I saw him. So I followed him." Harry stares down at his plate, feeling strangely like he is betraying someone. "I've been spending every day with him. As far as I can tell, I mean, I don't know -- I don't know if it's real..."   
  
"You've been spending every day with  _Snape_? Where?" Remus demands.   
  
"I don't know," Harry says. "It's so clogged up with spells and -- and it always feels like I'm there but not there, you know? I think," Harry says, lifting his head up to look at Hermione, "I think it might be like what you said. I might be -- I might be imagining him."   
  
Remus and Hermione share a significant glance and Harry shifts, feeling embarrassed and uncomfortable. What would they think of him, imagining being with Snape? What kind of person hallucinates about someone they hate? Having  _sex_  with someone they hate? Harry swallows as he watches the other two for a reaction.   
  
Remus clears his throat. "Every day," he affirms, and Harry nods. "Anything -- odd?"   
  
Harry swallows thickly, again, and lets out a whimper. "I..." He stares pleadingly at Remus.   
  
"Harry," Hermione says softly, placing her hands on Harry's. Harry stares down at her manicured fingernails feeling ill at ease. "We need to ask you something. It's very important. But we don't want you to get upset, ok? We don't mind if you can't answer, or don't know. Ok?"   
  
Harry frowns, a little surprised. "Ok," he whispers. He nods. "Ok," he repeats.   
  
Hermione takes a deep breath. "Has Snape mentioned anything about..." Hermione pauses. "Any plans," she amends, "that are...unseemly?"   
  
Harry's mouth goes dry. "What?"   
  
"Has he said anything to make you think he might have been -- have been hurting people?"   
  
Harry's heart starts to pump in his chest, which starts to restrict slowly. His eyes flicker between Remus and Hermione, and his hands start to shake. What is it they want from him? Do they know?   
  
"Or anything different about him?" Remus asks quietly. "Blood on his clothes, on his hands?"   
  
"Is he the one who's been hurting you?"   
  
_Blood trickling down his neck as Snape pounds into him from behind..._    
  
"I don't know," Harry says quickly, feeling the panic begin to descend. His heartbeat quickens again and his hand clenches into his thigh and his fights the urge to just  _run_. The room starts to spin slightly and he feels dizzy and nauseous, trying desperately to suck in as many deep breaths as he can before his throat closes up.   
  
"That's fine, that's just fine, Harry," Hermione says hastily. "If you don't know then we can't force you to know."   
  
"Can't force you to know," Harry repeats slowly, trying to lower his anxiety level.   
  
"That's right. We just want you to be safe."   
  
_Safe_. Harry lets the word reverberate around his head, letting it flow through him like a soothing potion.   
  
_Wait_.   
  
"Why did you want to know that?" he asks suddenly.   
  
Three sets of held breath fill the room with a sickening tension.   
  
"We--"   
  
"--have to tell him," Remus says under his breath. His eyes have not moved from Harry's face.   
  
Harry feels his stomach lurching. "Tell me," he demands. Remus and Hermione share another anxious glance and Harry's blood starts to boil. He's sick of their secrets and their private glances and their conversations behind closed doors. Snape's the only one who ever actually tells him anything -- what sort of irony is that? "Tell me," he repeats loudly. What right did they have to keep him in the dark? His friends? They keep on expecting him to trust them, to believe in them. How could he if they wouldn't even tell him the truth?   
  
"They've identified the magical signature on the bodies."   
  
Harry feels like the world has shrunk down to Hermione's lips.   
  
"Bodies?"   
  
A cleared throat. "The murders, Harry. The bodies appearing, slaughtered and unrecognisable." Hermione's voice quivers. "Rosy? The boys in the alleyway? The old man in the park. Alice from down the road and Gwen from across the street. Mr Rieper and Amanda Bones and Luna's little girl --"   
  
"The ones that everyone's talking about. On the wireless, in the paper, in the streets--"   
  
"--the thirty-five. They're all connected."   
  
_Murders_.   
  
"I--"   
  
_Running._    
  
"You mean--"   
  
_Screaming._    
  
"Me?"   
  
The world stands still. Harry forgets how to breathe.   
  
"Not you," Hermione whispers miserably.   
  
"Snape, Harry. It's Snape."   
  
Snape.   
  
"The magical signature's been identified."   
  
Snape.   
  
"We checked the magical signature on your clothes, after we heard you shouting."   
  
Snape.   
  
"It's the same, Harry. It's Snape's."   
  
Snape.   
"He's real, Harry. You're not imagining him, he's real. We need to know where he is."   
  
Snape.   
  
"If you've been seeing him then you're in real danger, Harry. Please tell me he hasn't done anything to hurt you."   
  
Snape.   
  
"Harry."   
  
_Snape_.   
  
" _Harry_!"   
  
  


* * *

  
  
Running. As the wind whips through Harry's hair and the blood drips from Harry's feet, he feels like it's the last time. The last time his limbs will force him through the streets, the last time he'll be grabbed roughly by a large hand, the last time he'll feel like throwing up as the world spins and he falls down and down and down. The last time the door that doesn't exist will slam behind him. The last time the blood will drip, the last time Snape will walk across the room, the last time Snape will push him down to the ground, the last time Snape will pump his cock in and out of Harry slowly, exquisitely.   
  
"S-she said that y-you're dangerous--"   
  
"Quiet," Snape whispers, running a hand down Harry sweat slicked face.   
  
"S-she said t-that you've been--"   
  
"Potter, there's no need to explain. We're all," Snape grunts, "victims of circumstance."   
  
Harry moans as Snape's cock hits that place deep inside him. "But she told me that you  _are_  real--"   
  
"It doesn't matter what she says." Snape gasps and groans hoarsely.   
  
"You--"   
  
"Don't exist, so lie back--" Snape flattens his rough palm against Harry's chest and pushes him down harder, "and take it. Guiltlessly, and thoughtlessly."   
  
Harry clenches his teeth and whimpers as Snape forces himself deeper with every thrust. "Why can't I stop this?" he gasps, his eyes wet.   
  
Snape stops above Harry, and stares down at him with flashing eyes. "You can."   
  
_Run, Harry_.   
  
Harry doesn't. 

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was heavily inspired by O'Malley's Bar, a song by Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds.


End file.
